


The End and Other Stories

by Kaneko



Category: Dead Like Me
Genre: Angst, End of the World, Humor, Last reaps, M/M, Plot, Post-Canon, Rising to a challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaneko/pseuds/Kaneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before George's final reap, they threw a party for her at Der Waffle Haus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End and Other Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oliviacirce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacirce/gifts).



> Written for Olivia Circe in the Yuletide 2006 Challenge. Many, many thanks to Terri and Julad for their help.

The night before George's final reap, they threw a party for her at Der Waffle Haus. There was cake and speeches. Everyone got drunk on booze hidden under tables and coats. It made Rube a little nostalgic for the Prohibition.

George said she wanted a crowd so Roxy invited the guys from Plagues, Pets, and Circulatory (though not the assholes from Infections - they still owed her $300, she said).

Mason invited a hobo he'd found outside the 7-11 on the corner. "His name's Charlie," Mason said. "Loves a good party, Charlie does."

George greeted everyone at the door. "Welcome, Charlie," she said, with the careful graciousness of the moderately drunk. "Have fun, and please partake of the excellent German beer." She pointed at the bottles under Daisy's table, and Daisy shifted her feet politely so Charlie could take one.

"De Beer," Charlie said, reading the label. "You know, my German's a little rusty, but-"

"Germanesque beer," George said. "What-the-fuck-ever."

"My grandmother was German," Charlie said defensively. "It's a beautiful language."

Rube had already had enough Germanesque beer to smile inanely at this, and at Mason when he sailed past, hair and hat already askew. When Roxy slid into the seat beside him, Rube turned his smile to her.

"What do you know about the replacement?" Roxy asked. She'd found gin and olives from somewhere and was drinking a martini.

Rube plucked one of the olives from her glass, earning a slap across his fingers. "You can know the name of a bird in all the languages of the world," he said serenely, "but that doesn't mean you know anything about the bird". He shook his fingers under the table to ease the sting. The slap had hurt.

"Rube," Roxy said. She didn't sound patient.

Rube chewed his olive. You could fuck with Roxy, but you inevitably regretted it. His hand regretted it. "I don't know," he said. "J Bowden. ETD 6:24am. St Catherine's Lane. Head trauma."

"Mugging?"

"Car accident."

"Interesting," Roxy said. She leaned back in her seat, with an air of professional assessment. "Last thought?"

"Oh fuck, I left the milk on the counter."

"Interesting," Roxy said again, though as last thoughts went it patently was not.

Rube leaned back in his own seat. "Can I have another olive?"

Roxy plucked one from her drink and dropped it in his hand. "How you doing?"

Rube swallowed some beer and chased it with the olive. It went down like a stone in his throat. "De Beer is De Crap," he said. He drank some more anyway. In a booth across the room, he watched George laugh at something Mason was saying. She'd acquired a tiara - maybe from Daisy. "It's funny. I thought-" His throat felt rough. "I thought we'd have her for longer."

"Funny how it works out," Roxy said. She held up her glass for Rube to clink. "To George."

"To George," Rube echoed. "May she find joy on the other side."

* * *

They said that life didn't begin until after death. Or something.

After he died, Rube took up gourmet cooking. It was a real challenge. In his 50 years, he'd never made anything more involved than opening a can and dumping the contents onto a plate (and not even that since he'd married), but that winter he graduated from cold beans to boiled eggs, fried halibut, stuffed celery hearts, and lemon souffles.

It took his mind off Lucy and Rosie sometimes. Occasionally. Mostly, it took his mind off his new boss, a tobacco-chewing jackass named Frank. Rube had never had to answer to anyone before. It was a skill he'd never wished to learn.

"Middle cup," Frank said. Chew, chew, spit.

Rube lifted the middle cup, palmed the pea under it. "Well blow me down, you're right again," he said. "Guess I'm buying you breakfast."

When the food came - three plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon because Rube was paying ("losing's a bitch," Frank said happily) - Rube helpfully shifted the water glasses and his own plate to make room. Then he helpfully pushed Frank's ledger off the table to the seat next to him and covered it with his coat.

"What are you hoping to find in there?" Penny asked when Frank went to the bathroom.

Rube looked into her sharp, smart eyes. She was the real brains of the group. Not for the first time, he wondered why she wasn't giving out the assignments.

"You going to stop me from looking?" he said.

"No."

"Going to tell Frank?"

"Why would I do that?"

Rube smiled at her a little, wanting to share the joke of Frank's idiocy, but Penny's expression didn't change. She could have been amused, disgusted, indifferent. He couldn't read her at all.

He looked down at the ledger to cover his discomfort. It was surprisingly well-kept. The entries went back to the 1840s. Rube flipped through it. Baker, Silzer, Dwyer, Krebs, Shahn, Mapes, Wetterlund, Tresselt, Cavicchia, Baird, Baird Jr, DeKorte, Hoffman, his own Aunt Lillian. L Sofer. 10 August 1917. Englewood, New Jersey. Drowned.

"He's not going to be in the bathroom forever," Penny pointed out. She held up her glass to the waitress. "Another, please."

Rube flipped forward and forward: 1924, 1925, 1926, and there he was: R Sofer. 22 December 1926. Englewood, New Jersey. Blood loss from gunshot wounds. The letters of his own name looked unfamiliar. He looked at them for a long time.

"Learn anything?" Frank said when he got back. (By then, Rube was lounging innocently, sipping an iced tea with lime.) "No?" He put a hand on the table, and the other on the backrest behind Rube's neck. He smelled of tar. "How 'bout you learn this: I have more power, more experience, and more brains than you. So don't dick me around, dipshit." He plucked the book from under Rube's coat. For a moment, Rube thought Frank was going to hit him with it, but he just waved it threateningly. "Thanks for breakfast."

* * *

Circulatory left the party before midnight. "Most heart attacks happen in the wee hours," Pete told Rube apologetically. Everyone else began to drift away around dawn.

When just the five of them were left, George staggered over to Rube and put her arms around him. Mason was passed out in their usual booth. Daisy was sipping coffee very carefully. Roxy had a fruit salad in front of her. She looked untouched by the martinis.

Rube rubbed his cheek over George's hair. "You want some breakfast before you go?" he said. "Oatmeal?"

George pulled back. "Nah." She grinned at him. "Don't want to be late."

Rube smiled back. "Don't want to be late," he echoed tightly.

Mason went with them. Daisy and Roxy said their goodbyes at Der Waffle Haus.

"I hate goodbyes," Daisy said. But she kissed George on the cheek, and then wiped away her lipstick with two fingers.

Roxy had her shades on. "I gotta work," she said. "Bye, George."

George insisted on driving, and on blasting something she called music.

"Hey, Rube," she yelled over the stereo. "You think it's weird that I was only reaping for five years, and you've been at it since Neolithic times?"

"Ours is not to reason why," Rube said. The singer screamed something about doing it doggy-style. Rube shuddered. He wasn't a prude, but fuck it - there were limits.

"Hear, hear," Mason said. "Reasoning is for other people. Having a nice quiet lie down is for us." He was lying face down across the backseat. "I feel really horrible. Really, really horrible. De Beer is De Disgusting."

"I kinda liked it," George said.

"That's because you are but a child, with childish tastes."

"Is that right? Well then. Maybe this child should bequeath her car to Daisy."

"Oh come on!" Mason sat up abruptly and then lay down flat again, just as abruptly. "Georgie," he said, clutching his head pitifully. "Please let me have the car. Please. Please, please, please, please, please. Pretty please. I'll be good to it. I'll like... polish it and stuff." He mimed polishing with his hand.

George's mouth quirked. "Well, I guess if you're going to polish it and stuff." She grinned at Rube. Rube's chest ached.

His watch ticked inexorably. Fifteen minutes. Fourteen minutes. Five minutes. George parked the car, tossed the keys to Mason. "You better be serious about the polishing," she said. Two minutes. There was a woman squinting at her cellphone by the side of the road.

"Excuse me," George said. "Excuse me!" The woman turned to look at her. "Hi!" George smiled too widely. "I think we went to school together. Janice Bowden, right?"

The woman smiled tentatively. "Julie."

"Julie," George said. "Julie Bowden. Gosh, it's been such a long time. I bet you don't even recognize me. I've had some face work done." She lowered her voice. "Chin lift."

"I'm sorry-"

"George," George said. She held out her hand. Then she took Julie's soul.

A moment later, the morning sky lit up, blue lights sparkling like stars. On the road, a car skidded on oil. "Guess this is my cue," George said. She gave Rube a nervous smile and then walked into the blue as the car plowed into Julie.

Mason looked down at Julie's body. "Not too messy," he said approvingly to Julie, who was staring at the scene open-mouthed. "I've seen worse. Been covered in worse." He chuckled and shook his head. "You wouldn't believe how much gore can come out of the human body. Why, just last week-" he saw Rube glaring at him and broke off. "Um. Welcome to being dead," he said.

Julie shook her head. "This can't be happening."

"Oh, it's happening, dead girl." Rube clapped her on the shoulder with an enthusiasm he didn't feel. "Now then-" he started to say, but then there was a noise, or an absence of noise. Something that really couldn't be happening. Rube turned slowly. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

There was an enormous shimmering train on the sidewalk. He turned back to Julie. Then back to the train.

"Is that for me?" Julie said wonderingly. "I had a model set just like that when I was a kid."

Mason swallowed noisily. "Have I been drinking, or is there a giant fucking blue train on the sidewalk?"

"There's a giant fucking blue train on the sidewalk," Rube confirmed.

"What do I do now?" Julie said.

"Because I thought she was supposed to be the replacement," Mason said.

Rube's head was starting to hurt. It had been a long time since anything had surprised him. "That's the way it generally works."

"What do I do now?" Julie said, louder. She sounded on the verge of panic. Or maybe anger.

"I fucking hate the newly dead," Mason said. "It's always whine, whine, whine. 'What do I do now?' 'Why are you stealing my wallet from my dead body?' Oh, there's a thought-" he bent down and rifled through Julie's pockets.

Julie stared at him. Rube tried to picture what she was seeing - a skinny guy stealing from her corpse. She looked at Rube.

Rube dug deep and found a professional smile. He nodded. "Go on then," he said. "Don't miss your ride."

She hesitated for just a moment, and then hoisted herself onto one of the carriages. The lights flickered out.

"So," Mason said, standing up, Julie's purse in his hand. "Where the fuck is George's replacement?"

* * *

Back at the diner, Roxy and Daisy seemed unimpressed.

"I don't think it's so weird," Roxy said. "Paperwork gets lost all the time."

"So this has happened before?" Rube said, relieved.

"Well, not to me," Roxy admitted. "Except when Betty didn't get replaced."

"Actually, she did," Daisy said crisply. "I was her replacement."

"You were a transfer - doesn't count."

"They got a new person in New York. So it does count. I was the replacement for Betty, Susan was the replacement for me."

"I'm just sayin' I don't think it's that weird is all," Roxy said. "It's not like George was doing so many reaps that we can't cover for her. And the more we cover, the sooner we can all fill our quotas. It's win-win."

* * *

Rube had been short-handed a few times before - once when Laura was transferred to San Francisco. Her replacement was Mason.

"Great worker," Mason's boss said on the phone. "Very dedicated. You'll love him."

In retrospect, the guy had sounded somewhat eager.

When Mason finally showed up, he was more than six weeks late and smelled like a bar urinal. "I got a little bit lost," he said. "Was Seattle always at the top?"

Rube was tempted to send him back, but that would have involved filling out about 18,000 forms, and if there was anything Rube hated, it was paperwork. He ordered them both breakfast instead. Three-egg omelettes with cheese, mushrooms and peppers. Beans on the side, and on separate plates. Dishes weren't supposed to mingle with side dishes.

"So how did you die?" Rube said politely. Reaper small-talk.

"I drilled a hole in my head," Mason said, his mouth full of toast. "Was hoping to get high."

Rube had filled his own mouth, so he wasn't able to reply immediately. Eighteen thousand forms, he reminded himself as he chewed. And more to get another replacement. All in all, a hell of a lot of paperwork.

* * *

It wasn't too bad after George left. No new, annoying dead person to run around after, just four professionals doing their jobs. (Or three professionals and Mason, according to Daisy.) They posted their assignments, did their paperwork. External Influence was a smoothly oiled, soul-taking machine.

And then one morning, there was an asterisk next to Daisy's name.

This time they all went to see her off. Roxy sat in her car, sunglasses on, her expression stony. At 4:15pm, Daisy took S Polansky's hand and his soul. At 4:19 he was dead. Daisy was always punctual.

At 4:24, S and Daisy were both gone - Daisy walking into a blaze of flashing camera lights, S into an open field of blue.

"What's going on?" Mason said.

"I don't like it," Roxy said. "Not at all." She rolled up her window and drove off.

* * *

With George gone, they'd been busy, but with Daisy gone, things were crazy. Rube called in all the favors he was owed - you didn't get to 132 years without having a few.

It helped at first. Shift here. Shift there. But the shortage seemed to be spreading.

Michaela from Plagues called an emergency meeting.

"Fifteen quotas in the last six months; no replacements," she said. "And it isn't just Seattle. We've had reports from Moscow, the Caribbean. There's something going on Up There."

"Power shift," Dave from Infections said knowledgably, making Rube roll his eyes. Infections always thought they knew everything. "Something like this happened back in the 1600s," Dave continued. "There'll be some weird shit going down in the next few months. Mark my words."

Rube's team managed better than some. Roxy did double shifts. Dropped to three days a week at the station. Then two. Rube reaped 12-hour days. Even Mason pulled his weight, rolling into the diner only a little hungover, and getting to reaps up to five minutes early. Most of the time, anyway.

Once, Rube had to go with him to a cocktail party. Jealous girlfriends were going to off the host. And then several others. And then themselves.

Rube had said black tie. Mason had shown up with a green tie and no pants. "Long story," he muttered. He looked - and smelled - like he'd rolled in mud, let it harden, and then rolled in dog shit. And then drunk a case of cheap beer.

"Generally, black tie implies pants," Rube pointed out. "And a black fucking tie."

Mason blinked at him slowly. "If you're going to be rude, I think I'll leave."

Rube wondered if he could hold his temper and - more importantly - his breath for the next hour. "Just go around the back. I'll meet you with clothes."

Once he was inside ("friend of Maree's" he told the guy at the door breezily), he made his way upstairs and found a suit approximately Mason's size. Then he passed it to Mason through a back window along with a bar of soap (stolen from the downstairs guest room) and a damp towel (also from the guest room - fortunately, Rube was pretty sure the guest was going to be one of the dead people).

Mason changed behind a fern while Rube kept watch. He came back neatly pressed and actually quite debonair. Like a slightly whiffy James Bond. His hair looked a little odd.

"Did you cut your hair?"

Mason touched it self-consciously. "This morning," he said. "I got... stuff in it."

"Okay," Rube said.

"I fell into a hole, if you must know," Mason said. "There was some kind of animal shit in it. Manure."

"Oh."

"And I may have been a bit inebriated. When I cut my hair."

He really looked presentable, Rube thought. "You should keep the suit," he blurted. "It looks good on you."

Mason looked down at himself. "All right," he said, slowly.

Rube blinked. He remembered where they were suddenly. "Um. I think the living room is that way," he added.

The hiccups were rare, though. Mostly, they managed just fine.

* * *

And then one day, there were four assignments at opposite ends of town: 3:12, 3:14, 3:15 and 3:15.

"We're down to two," the guy at Plagues said when Rube called him. "Me and Ernie. Sorry, buddy."

"Penny doesn't work here anymore," said the receptionist at the nursing home. "Went and quit about a month ago - not even 24 hours notice. Something about a long journey. Really unlike her." She lowered her voice. "Personally, I think it's a gambling thing. Penny always did like the craps."

At Der Waffle Haus, Mason argued that the second 3:15 reap should go last. "Smoke inhalation after losing consciousness," he said. "Won't feel a thing."

"He'll be a crispy critter for eternity!" Roxy said. It was almost a shout. The family in the next booth jerked their heads to look at her. "We're a theatre company," she snarled at them.

Finally, Rube suggested they draw straws. Only fair, he said.

The short straw went to M Davies, who was going to drown in the shallow end of her own swimming pool.

"That's not so bad," Roxy said. "Drowning."

Mason raised his eyebrows. "Have you ever drowned?"

"Have _you_?"

"No, and I wouldn't care to. It doesn't look pleasant."

Rube wiped a hand over his face. He couldn't remember when he'd last been this tired. Probably back when he was alive. "She won't be alone more than half an hour," he said. "Forty-five minutes tops."

* * *

People often thought that the dead had nothing left to lose. They were wrong.

Maybe being shot in the gut should have taught Rube something about consequences, but a week after his death, he went to see his wife.

She didn't seem surprised to see him, but at the sight of her, Rube started to shake. His chest was so tight he wondered if he was breathing. Could he die again?

"You're here to see the house?" she said. It was her polite voice - the one she used for strangers.

Rube forced a slow, painful breath. "You're selling?" he said. "I mean-" he added before her eyes could narrow in suspicion- "You're eager to sell soon?"

Lucy looked at him coolly. "Not so eager that I won't wait for the right price," she said.

"Lucy," Rube said. It came out desperately tender. And then her eyes did narrow. "It's Rube. Your husband," he tried to say. But his mouth refused to shape the words. He heard himself groaning like a madman. "The first time we met," he wanted to say, but to his horror the memories, and not just the words, were melting away. He tried again. Then again. He was out of his mind, he supposed later. No one thinking straight would have kept trying.

"You were warned," Frank said without sympathy when Rube found his way back to the diner, hours late, drunker than he'd ever been, and with holes in his head where his wife and daughter had been.

"Everyone tries it," Penny said gently, after Frank had left. "Just don't try it too many times. Some of us-" her mouth twisted, "some of us can't remember much at all." She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, and, honey, you smell worse than a dead fucking pig. Take a goddamn bath."

In the months later, Rube made a list of the blank places in his memory:

  

  * The first time he met his wife.  

  * Something about driving a car in the rain. Lucy had been pregnant.  

  * Something Rosie had said once. It had been very dear to him.  


  
Years later, he added:

  

  * What Lucy looked like when she smiled.
  * How she took her coffee.  

  * Rosie's 6th birthday.  

  * Her 20th birthday. Her 40th birthday.  


  


* * *

They lost M Davies. Or really, the morgue lost her. She wasn't in the pool when Rube got there. She wasn't in the county hospital ("Seems to have been transferred," one of the nurses said. "Not sure where.") She wasn't at Virginia or Providence or the Swedish Medical Centre.

Six months ago, there would have been a reaper at every hospital, but now there were no special nurses, no strange janitors, no one keeping an eye on the newly dead at all.

It was Mason who found her, finally. "She's at the teaching hospital," he told Rube. It was past 11 by then - M had been trapped inside her corpse for almost eight hours. "I'm with her now." Mason sounded more shaken than Rube had ever heard him.

When Rube arrived, Mason was holding her hand and talking to her quietly about Brad Pitt and Angelina and the new movie with the animated ducks.

"Hi, Rube," Mason said. From the gurney, M's eyes rolled towards him - wide and horrified. Mason patted her hand. "Margaret, this is Rube. He's going to get you out of there. You can hang on just another few moments, can't you, darling."

Rube smiled at her. "It's all over now, sweetheart," he told her. He brushed his fingers over her forehead, and then helped her out of her body.

Mason held her while she cried, looking at Rube despairingly. After a while, a blue garden appeared and Margaret went home. As soon as she was gone, Mason fumbled a flask from his jacket pocket and swallowed it down like a man dying of thirst.

"This is fucked up," Rube said. He stared at the place where the garden had been. "This is just fucked up."

* * *

He was waiting when the next list arrived. He threw open the door and caught the delivery guy's wrist.

"What the fuck, man!" the guy said.

Rube had raised his free hand defensively, but now he lowered it again. He'd been braced for- he didn't know what. Talons? But it was just an ordinary guy with a ball cap and a wispy beard. Looked a bit like Rube's Uncle Avery. If Uncle Avery had been the kind of dickwad who'd grow a pop-star goatee. Rube was a bit disappointed.

The guy shook Rube's hand off. "What the fuck?" he said again.

"I just want some answers," Rube said. "Eighty-three years I've been doing this. I just want the courtesy of an explanation."

"Hey, it's like gays in the military, dude. You don't ask, and I don't tell."

Rube thought about the horror on Mason's face. On Margaret's. He wanted to punch the guy in his stupid mouth. He attempted a calming breath. "Congratulations," he said. "With that analogy, I think you just became the nadir in an age of idiocy."

"What?"

"I'm calling you a fuckhead," Rube clarified.

The guy looked at him sourly. "Well that's just uncalled for. Anyway, I'm just the courier, you jackhole. You think they tell me anything?" He rubbed his arm. "I think you sprained my wrist," he added resentfully.

* * *

The next morning, Rube was fired by postcard. On one side was an attractive seaside scene: 'Make Ellesworth your next holiday destination,' it said. On the other side was a neatly written line: 'Mason McAdams has been promoted. In future, all communication will proceed via this channel.'

"Via my channel?" Mason said when Rube brought it to the diner. He'd been passed out across two chairs. Roxy had had to rouse him with a glass of cold water. And a slap. Now he sounded a little panicked. "What does that mean: 'Via my channel'?"

Roxy sipped her coffee. "It means you'll have to pull the list out of your ass every morning."

"That's bullshit." Mason said. "Right, Rube? I mean _you_ don't have to-" he stopped. "I don't want something in my arse that I haven't put there," he said in a small voice.

"It's slipped under the fucking door, you moron," Roxy said. She looked at Rube. "This is the last straw, Rube. I mean it. I ain't taking orders from this jackass."

"Rube," Mason said. He looked at Rube. "Did you hear what she just said to me? Did you hear that, Rube?"

"I just don't understand," Roxy continued, "why he gets promoted. I'm professional, I'm punctual, I bathe."

"_I_ bathe!" Mason said.

"Oh yeah? When was the last time that you bathed, Mason?

'Last-" Mason frowned. "Earlier this week. Ha! Got brains all over myself from a car crash and I washed it off with soap and water. _And_ I changed my shirt this morning."

"They can't do this," Roxy said.

"They're Upper Management," Rube said. "They can do whatever the fuck they want."

* * *

Rube was promoted only a year after his death. He hadn't quite gone straight yet, but apparently, the money he'd sent to Rosie had gone unnoticed by Upstairs. The petty theft he was doing was going unnoticed by the cops. As far as anyone knew, he was a model citizen and a model reaper. Laura said he was a natural.

"You've got a real eye for who the dead guy's going to be," she'd said to him admiringly after his first week on the job. "And you're good at getting them to follow you afterwards - that's always the tricky bit when you're starting out."

She wasn't so magnanimous when he was promoted, though.

"Frank was one thing, but this guy's barely been reaping a year."

"I don't like it any better than you," Penny said. She looked at Rube apologetically. "No offense meant, honey, but you're a fuckin' babe in the woods."

* * *

Mason caught Rube before he left. "Do I get your notebook?"

"Oh hell no. You gotta work out your own system," Rube said.

Mason's own system was to neatly draw a map for each of them, with places, times, and recommended routes indicated in green.

"What the hell is this?" Roxy said

"I never liked Post-its," Mason said, handing out their assignments. "I always thought they were dangerously easy to lose." He pointed at the green line on Rube's map. "Each of your reaps is numbered. I've also plotted the most time-efficient route. Rube, you'll see I've suggested travelling through Spencer Road rather than Bell Street - that way you'll beat the after-work traffic." He looked at them. "Any questions?"

Neither of them had questions.

Rube followed Mason's fancy map. He had to admit it was pretty good.

The next morning, Roxy brought Mason donuts. "I got home in time for Criminal Intent." She glanced at Rube. "I've had to reap through it almost every night since the new season started."

Rube felt a little sour. "I'm friggin' a thousand years old, and even I've heard of Tivo," he said.

"I'm just saying - it was good work."

"Yeah, it was great." He looked around for Kiffany. "When the fuck am I going to get some service around here?" he muttered. He was being ungracious, he knew, but he wanted waffles and he wanted them now.

* * *

Roxy filled her quota that month. They'd all been anticipating that one of them would - they were doing years worth of reaps in weeks.

"I'll try not to go," Roxy said.

Rube squatted beside her. His knees protested. He was immortal and quick-healing, but he'd died with bad knees, and now it appeared he was going to have to live with them. Being dead wasn't being given a clear slate. He kissed Roxy's cheek. "You know you won't have a choice," he said.

She didn't.

"Looks like it's just you and me, cowboy," Mason said.

* * *

He and Mason didn't have time for anything much after that. They reaped and they reaped and they reaped and they reaped and they reaped and they reaped. They didn't sleep.

One morning, Mason didn't make it to Der Waffle Haus until well after Rube had finished his bacon and eggs. It was so unusual that Rube started to wonder if Mason had filled his quota in the night.

He showed up, though, finally; slid into their usual booth, inhaled the coffee Kiffany gave him, and then tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

"How many did you do this morning?" Rube said.

Mason didn't open his eyes. "Three or four, I think," he said. His hands were shaking. Rube wanted to cover them with his own hands, but he didn't think Mason would appreciate it. "Or five. I'm a fuck-up. Slept through the first three. Didn't know what to tell them when I got to the morgue." He took a deep breath. "Is there anything- can you take the job back?" He sounded desperate. "Please, Rube. Please. I was never meant to do this. I don't know why they're making me do it."

"Mason." Rube felt a mixture of helplessness and protectiveness wash over him. He waved Kiffany back over, and then - because Mason couldn't seem to make his eyes focus on the menu - he ordered Mason some waffles and more coffee. "How 'bout tonight you sleep at my place," he said.

Mason raised his head, looked at Rube disbelievingly. Rube had never invited any of them to his place.

"More chance of one of us hearing the delivery," Rube explained. He looked at Mason steadily. "And don't call yourself a fuck-up. It's false and it's demeaning.

* * *

Six months ago, if Rube had been told that Mason would be moving in, he'd have changed the locks and maybe burnt down the apartment for good measure. But the whole thing went surprisingly smoothly.

Mason didn't bring much with him - an armful of grubby t-shirts, his alarm clock, some records. He grinned at Rube when he saw him looking at the records. "Have you boppin' around to them in no time," he said, making Rube snort.

On top of the pile Mason was carrying, Rube added a fresh bar of soap, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. Mason looked at them.

"House rules," Rube said.

The next morning, he woke to the rustle of the list being slipped under the door. Mason was asleep, drooling into Rube's sofa cushion. Rube dragged himself to the door. He ached all over. He supposed even an immortal body could begin to tire.

There were no asterisks next to any of the reaps. They had about 20 each. Rube sat at his desk with a city map and plotted their courses. Halfway through, he heard the shower. Two-thirds through, he smelled coffee, and then a mug appeared over his shoulder.

"Morning," Mason said. He pointed at the list. "Does it-"

"No," Rube said. He took the coffee. "Not today."

"Okay." Mason appeared in his line of vision. His mouth quirked up. "Here we go again then."

* * *

The next morning, they both slept through the delivery. They missed three reaps: R Halson (5:43am), S Hernandez (5:57am), Q Smythe (5:59am).

Rube took one look at Mason's face and tore the list off at P Bale. About 30 names each. "I'll take care of the early birds," he said.

"Rube-"

"Don't." Rube shook his head. "Don't think about them. I'll take care of them. Go."

After that, Rube always did the reaps they'd missed in the early hours. Mason always assigned himself anyone under 14.

They got into something of a rhythm. In the morning, one of them would collect the list while the other fixed breakfast. Rube was pretty good at plotting courses. Mason made surprisingly decent eggs. During the day, they reaped and reaped and reaped.

"How many souls do you think we've taken since this started?" Mason said one morning. He was bleary-eyed, hair standing up, stirring instant coffee into just-boiled water. There was no time anymore for Rube's fancy coffee machine.

"I don't know. Five hundred? A thousand?"

"You ever wonder." Mason wiped his hand over his face tiredly. "You ever wonder why all of the others filled their quotas and we didn't?"

Rube didn't look up from his maps. "No," he lied. "I never think about it."

That day, Rube guided 20 people to their deaths: 7 car accidents, a fire, 2 electrocutions, 2 suicides, 3 falls, a murder, and four drownings. When he got to the diner, Mason was already there.

"It'll be tomorrow," Mason said, sounding blurry - sleepy or drunk. Rube slid into the seat beside him, shifting close so that their arms and legs touched. Mason looked at him. "I hope it's you tomorrow," he said.

Rube blinked. And it was exhaustion talking, but for a second he imagined himself leaning down and putting his mouth over Mason's. Kissing him.

"I hope it's both of us," he said.

The next day, they had ten reaps each. "A light day," Mason said. He pulled the list and the map from Rube's hands.

"You don't want me to do it?" Rube said. He'd thought he was getting pretty good at figuring out the best routes.

"Nope." Mason frowned down at the page. "Because between-" he squinted. "Between S Woo at 12:37 and T Lee at 1:34, and taking into account travel time, we have 20 minutes."

"Twenty minutes for what?"

Mason grinned. "A lunch date." And he looked so happy that Rube couldn't help but smile back.

They met up at the park. Mason brought the booze - a bottle of very good red. (S Woo had an excellent wine cellar and really crap security, he said.) Rube brought the food - sandwiches he'd made himself from deli meat and rolls at the park bench. Neither of them had thought to bring utensils or a blanket, so they drank straight from the bottle and dropped crumbs on the grass.

"This is nice," Mason said. He flopped backwards onto the grass. "How much longer?"

Rube looked at his watch. "Seven minutes," he said.

"Mm." Mason sounded sleepy.

Rube looked up at the cloudless sky and at the other people in the park, taking breaks, throwing frisbees. "Feels like we're on vacation," he said. He lay back next to Mason. Their hands were almost touching. Rube felt more peaceful than he had in weeks. Months. He looked at the sky again, and then turned his head to watch Mason doze. He counted down 410 seconds. And then it was time to go.

* * *

There were no asterisks the next day or the day after or the day after that.

There were no asterisks the week after that.

One day, one of Rube's reaps (the 13th that day? The 18th?) said to him, "Why don't you come along for the ride?" She had a really sweet smile - a little cheeky. She reminded him of Betty.

He hesitated a second. It could all be over just like that. He could rest.

At home, Mason was frying cabbage and potato. It smelled disgusting, it looked disgusting. "Bubble and squeak," Mason said, as though that was an explanation.

"You ever think about jumping?" Rube said. He dithered at the edge of the kitchen. Before Mason, he'd never let anyone use his knives or his cutting boards or his stove. It still felt unnatural.

"You mean like Betty?" Mason said. He put a heap of cabbage on Rube's plate. Rube looked at it. It looked back at him. "Like Betty?" Mason continued. "No. Yes." He put some cabbage on his own plate, and sat down. "Yes, but I wouldn't, Rube. I wouldn't do that to you."

"What if we did it together?" Rube said.

"I don't-" Mason pushed a curl of cabbage around his plate. "Don't tempt me." He looked at Rube a little pleadingly. "I'm a weak man."

Rube sighed. "How long are we going to have to keep doing this?"

"I don't know," Mason said. "But someone has to do it."

* * *

Mason kissed him one night. Rube had come home early and decided to make them dinner. He'd flipped through his old recipe book and decided he was probably up to a very pared-down paella.

"Oh my God, that smells like heaven," Mason said when he made it home. He leaned against the cupboards while Rube washed the frying pan. Knowing Mason's eyes were on him was a strange feeling. Rube found himself overly aware of every movement he made - from turning off the tap to shaking stray drops of water from the pan.

"Let me dry that," Mason said.

When Rube turned to give it to him, Mason kissed him. Rube hesitated a moment- _not a good idea_, he thought. But his body had already decided for him. He was kissing Mason back. He lost himself in it, opening his mouth under Mason's mouth, and letting Mason press him back against the sink edge. He was gasping when Mason pulled back. The back of his shirt was wet and cold. There was a weight in his hand. He looked down and realized he was still holding the pan. He put it on the sink. _This is nuts_, he thought distantly.

Mason's hands shook as he tugged Rube's shirt from his pants.

"Hey," Rube said.

"I bathed," Mason said, maybe mistaking Rube's expression. "This morning."

Rube grinned. "Appreciated." He put his hands over Mason's, and when Mason looked up at him quizzically, Rube kissed him again.

They fucked in Rube's small bed, the springs squeaking loudly, Rube pushing himself into Mason's pale ass. It was amazing, he thought. Astounding. It was a whole lot like being alive.

"You have a really shitty bed," Mason said afterwards, sleepily.

"Probably time to get a new one," Rube admitted.

He woke the next morning to the sound of the list being pushed under the door. There was an unfamiliar weight beside him. Mason. Rube rolled carefully to face him.

"M'wake," Mason said into the pillow. He groped for purchase and started to get up. "M'ready to go."

"You can stay there a couple more minutes," Rube said. He put a gentle hand on Mason's back. "I'll go get the list."

Mason twisted his head enough for Rube to see his face. His eyes were screwed tightly shut against the light streaming through the window. Rube bent to kiss the edge of his cheek. His heart was beating faster with- something. He pulled away and went to get the list. There were no asterisks. Rube had a moment of giddy, guilty relief.

Mason appeared in the doorway. His hair was wild. There were pillow marks on his face. Rube wanted to fuck him all over again. Mason must have seen it in his face because he grinned. "No asterisks today?" he said.

Rube grinned back a little shyly. "No asterisks today."

* * *

They got into a new rhythm. They reaped, they fucked. They listened to Mason's appalling punk rock (which started to get catchy after ten or twelve plays) and Rube's warbly old Irving Berlins (Mason admitted to liking 'You'd Be Surprised').

Mason experimented in Rube's kitchen: pea soup (Mason poured his down the sink, but Rube held his breath - it wasn't like he could die - and ate the whole bowl), meatloaf (not bad with ketchup), and chicken pot pie (a resounding success).

There were no asterisks and there were no asterisks and there were no asterisks and there were no asterisks.

* * *

And one afternoon, Rube came back from his last reap and there was a strange girl sitting next to Mason in their booth.

"Rube!" Mason said, looking up from his Banana Bonanza. "This is Tina Wang. She died this morning."

"Hi," Tina said with her mouth full. She was shoving forkfuls of waffle into her mouth like she hadn't eaten in months. "You better be paying for these," she said to Mason. She seemed to be taking death - and Mason - in her stride.

"What? Why?"

"You stole my purse," Tina said.

"You were dead!"

"She's eating waffles," Rube said stupidly.

"Yup," Mason said through a mouthful of ice-cream. He held up a flowery pink wallet. "And she was loaded. You want a sundae or something?"

Rube dropped into his seat. "She's a reaper," he said. He couldn't seem to stop saying stupid things.

"Yup," Mason said. His face broke into a sweet smile. He reached across the table and put his hand over Rube's. "Doesn't look like she's going anywhere."

Rube took a deep shaky breath. He wanted to kiss him. He settled for gripping his hand tighter.

They got another one the next day - a gentleman in a bowler hat named Doug.

The day after that, they got Judy.

The week after that, they got Tom and the week after that Stephanie.

They were new and so sometimes they were stupid. Doug lost his map once and Stephanie refused to reap a ten-year-old boy until Mason went and yelled at her. Tina was pretty good, though. She had real potential, Rube thought.

Rube and Mason got into a new rhythm. They bought a new bed for Rube's apartment. They had a whole bunch of sex. Rube thumbed through the thin pages of his old recipe book, and made Mason all the classics of the 20s: devilled oysters, Russian salad, jellied chicken, and suet pudding.

Mason ran the group with a kind of steely efficiency that Rube would never have thought him capable of before all the weirdness began. The new kids treated him like God (except Tina, who treated him like her personal ATM. "You still owe me money," she kept reminding him).

It freaked Mason out sometimes, he confided to Rube in their new, enormous bed. "I feel like an impostor," he said. "Like they should be answering to you, not me."

Rube kissed the bit of Mason he could reach - the edge of his ear. "Seems like you're doing a pretty good job to me," he said.

* * *

A year later, the new people weren't so new, and they'd gotten over their awe of Mason. They complained to him when he forgot to bathe, rolled their eyes when he drank too much. Grumbled that Rube totally got the good reaps because he was sleeping with the boss. They had favorite foods at Der Waffle Haus, and Kiffany knew how they liked their coffee. Life - death - went on.

One morning, Mason brought the list back to bed with him. "Rube," he said.

There were two asterisks. This reap will fill Rube Sofer's quota. This reap will fill Mason McAdam's quota. Same time. Same place. Rube put the list on the bedside table. He kissed Mason forehead. Then he reached into the drawer for the lube, and opened Mason slowly and tenderly, cock following fingers, knowing from long experience all of the things that Mason liked.

Afterwards, they spent a long time kissing.

"Who do you think will get the apartment?" Mason said drowsily. "Better not be Stephanie. She'll play fuckin' Genesis on the record player."

Rube stroked his hair. "They won't use the record player at all," he pointed out. "They're from a whole other age."

That afternoon, they threw an impromptu party. Rube invited Plagues, Pets, and Circulatory, and even the guys from Infections - they were fuckers, but they were family of a kind. Mason invited Charlie, the hobo, for old time's sake.

They drank actual German beer - De Beer Company had gone out of business. Doug brought cake and Tina brought a postcard from the seaside town of Nessebur. She'd been promoted, she said.

After the speeches, Mason looked at his watch and smiled at Rube a little sadly.

They walked to the reap - it wasn't far. At the crossroads, two cars smashed into each other, and Rube and Mason guided two new reapers, so wet behind the ears they even didn't believe they were dead yet, into Tina's capable hands.

A few moments later, the sky lit up in front of them.

"Are you ready?" Mason asked.

Rube smiled at him. He was ready. "I think we've waited long enough." He took Mason's hand.

Together, they stepped into the blue.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> [Original location](http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/31/theend.html)


End file.
